In Service of the Crown

Clem was one of the last men left in the bar. He ordered another drink and raised it as a toast. “To His Majesty the King—may he live long and prosper!”

No one paid him any attention. The other patrons were too drunk to notice, and the bartender was both half asleep, and saw too many drunk customers to care about one more.

“The King’s really a murderer, you know,” Clem slurred. “Murders innocent little children. Killed countless men in a useless war, left their wives widows. Steals, too. He’s the reason this country’s in shambles and we’re all starving to death.”

As he spoke, three men burst through the door and hurried up to the counter. They were wearing state uniforms, but they weren’t ordinary soldiers. The bartender came abruptly awake at the sight of their olive-green jackets. They were special service forces, the men the king sent out on more “diplomatic” missions. They surrounded Clem, one on either side, while the last kept an eye on the bartender.

“What’s your name?” one of them demanded of Clem.

“Jakob Clem.”

“You’re under arrest, by order of the Crown.”

“What? No, I can’t be!” Clem swayed unsteadily. “I work for the Crown.”

“Nonsense. You’re wanted on charges of desertion and treason.”

Clem drew himself up to the best of his ability. “I am a member of the King’s intelligence force.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small medallion. “See? I am on business for the King.” But the men ignored the medallion and took Clem by the arms, leading him out.

One of them stayed behind and slid a coin across the counter to the bartender. “You never saw us here.” The man quickly pocketed the money and nodded, watching the men go out. Odd happenings for Fina, he thought. He couldn’t remember ever seeing special service forces this far from the capital. Fina was the last town before the endless steppes leading up into the Midlands, and a towering mountain range separated it from the rest of Stalland. Government men rarely crossed the mountains.

To the special service men, Clem was just another deserting soldier, found drunk in a tavern far away from his regiment. They locked him in a room in the empty fort just outside of Fina, and then went out for drinks themselves. They didn’t check on him until late the following morning, and when they did, they found—to their immense confusion and consternation—that he was gone. The door remained locked, as did the single window in the room where they had kept him, but Clem himself had vanished like smoke on a hot day.

By the time they sent out search parties, Clem was well on his way across the steppes. Within three days he made it to the border city of Sito. The city was a colorful mix of people of all kinds, representative of the many different tribes that claimed the region. While Sito was technically under Stalland’s control, there were more Amarians and people from the countless Midland tribes than there were Stallanders. The Stallish government didn’t bother trying to enforce its rule, and thus disorder and petty crime ran free. Beggar children were everywhere on the streets, their clothes tattered and their faces burnt from the hot sun. On corners, Lakrian fortune tellers plied their trade, and in taverns men from every country met to gamble away their money and order more drinks from pretty barmaids.

Jakob Clem was not interested in gambling away his money, he was interested in staying hidden for a few days, before doubling back on his tracks and returning to the capital. But one night, as he was walking towards the miserable flat he had rented, he suddenly found himself seized from behind and slammed against a wall.

The glinting barrel of a pistol was shoved in his face and a low voice growled, “Don’t scream.” His attackers seemed young, barely older than the children on the streets, but there was a deadly air about them. He was being held by a girl and the boy holding the pistol, but there were two more figures lurking in the shadows. The boy backed away, keeping the pistol trained on his head, while the girl still held him. She turned and said something to the boy, but she spoke in Kinnish, and Clem was too confused to make out the words. The boy growled something back and narrowed his eyes at their captive. Something stirred in the back of Clem’s mind. The boy looked strangely familiar. His face was pale, and a faded scar ran from his eyebrow to the bottom of his chin.

Suddenly Clem knew. “You’re the Haunt!”

The Haunt was the name Stallanders gave to the feared apparition that was said to visit an unlucky few, always a predictor of certain doom. Some said it was a ghost, others insisted he was human, but across the country superstitious people crossed themselves at the name. He had been sighted from Sito all the way to the capital, although legend had it he had sailed down a river from Kinnland. Clem was not a superstitious person, but the gaunt face with its long scar matched the old wives’ tales perfectly.

If the apparition was at all disturbed that Clem knew his identity, he didn’t show it, tilting his head to one side as if weighing the man’s words. “In that case, we can cut the small talk and get right to the point,” he said, in a surprisingly young voice. “All I want is information.” He paused. “I’ll pay well for it.”